


push (there's so much I can take)

by orphan_account



Category: Women's Soccer RPF
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2016-10-20
Packaged: 2018-07-25 17:23:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7541422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a collection of not-so-appropriate one-shots</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four times Ali pushes her luck and one time Ashlyn does something about it

one.

They’re all casual around each other, which is good for camaraderie and team bonding and pretty much everything else that’s necessary to turn 23 women into a cohesive unit. But it’s currently torture for Ashlyn, because it means that Ali has pretty much full range of motion, and that means she’s decided to use this particular moment to make Ashlyn wish she was never born, or was born in a different body, or was born with the ability to teleport into a different room where there was a little more privacy and a lot less clothing involved.

It’s only lunchtime too, and that’s the worst part of it, because she would understand a little laziness, a little handsy teasing under the table, if it was late and Ali was tired, because the second the woman became even slightly sleepy she became soft and automatically reached out for Ashlyn, tugging her closer in a way that was both intimate and innocent.

Just to be clear: this is not intimate or innocent.

This is Ali’s hand under the table, one knuckle pressing its way up and down the inseam of Ashlyn’s jeans with enough pressure to make everything in her lower body throb. She's doing pretty well, taking sizable bites of her sandwich and swallowing smoothly, reaching for her water and only shooting Ali the tiniest glare, which gives her the tiniest inch of pride. Then Ali unfurls her clenched hand, fingertips grazing a different area of the inseam, and Ashlyn’s hips buck slightly, unconsciously forward, face flushing with the rush the minuscule motion sent down her legs.

“Krieger.” Ashlyn’s voice is too low and too strained to be even remotely appropriate for the moment, but thank God for Kelley O’Hara, who is currently trying to prove her dominance in flipping spoons in spinning arcs across the table and keeping the whole team enthralled. “Stop.”

Ali does stop, instead spreading her palm on the inside of her thigh, fingers brushing too high. She drums out a slight beat and Ashlyn is fucking squirming at this point, completely unsure of whether she wants the pressure to stop or just pick up the pace.

“Hey, ‘m not doing anything,” Ali murmurs, and her voice is so sugary sweet that Ashlyn has to close her eyes for a second, at which point Ali gives her leg one more squeeze before retracting her hand.

“I hate you.” Ashlyn tips her head up to the face the ceiling, and she swears she feels the ghost of a kiss on the sunburnt skin of her shoulder.

“No you don’t.” Then Ali is gone, leaving Ashlyn to slowly relax her legs and stop imagining dark hotel rooms and white sheets and hands everywhere, because that’s exactly what Ali wants and for once Ashlyn doesn’t want to give in. Not yet, at least.

two.

“You’re so fucking tense.” Ali is leaning against the lockers and Ashlyn is pointedly ignoring her and Becky, two seats away, is pointedly ignoring both of them. That’s something that will change quickly if Ali goes too far with all this, but Ali learned those lines long ago and now she just dances around them as if it’s all a game to her. Which it is, Ashlyn guesses, because this is all for fun now that they don’t actually have to sneak around, now that the intrigue is all fabricated. It would be silly, perhaps even laughable, if it weren’t for the way Ali’s eyes have darkened in the two seconds that she’s traced the whole of Ashlyn’s frame.

“Yeah.” Ashlyn rolls her shoulders, trying to keep her face from flushing again. “Lunch didn’t help.”

“Really?” Ali is adjusting her cleats and Ashlyn is averting her eyes because she sees Ali like this in the locker room all the time but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t feel new as hell every time she catches an extra glimpse of skin. “I always feel better after I eat. More loose.”

“Real funny, Alex.” She’s pretty sure she hears Becky swallow a laugh, and Ali takes a step closer, extending one hand for Ashlyn’s gloves. For no particular reason, she’s gained a rather sudden fondness in the last year for putting on Ashlyn’s gloves before training — not before games, as if this messes up their juju — and now Ashlyn wonders if it’s just because it gives her an extra handful of seconds to put their hands on each other before they take the pitch.

She tugs the left glove on, then the right, and her hands trace their way up her arm, fingers following the paths of each tattoo, which she must have memorized by now. That touch snakes up just under Ashlyn’s sleeve, and there’s something in the way that Ali loves to touch the skin that no one else sees, even if it’s just an inch of skin that’s normally covered by the shoulder of her jersey, that makes Ashlyn’s mouth go a little dry.

Ali takes a risk and takes a step forward, letting her knee knock into the inside of Ashlyn’s thigh and their fronts are almost pressed together, and she’s smirking upwards at Ashlyn with a hand light and delicate on her hip, and she doesn’t say anything because Becky is almost immediately barking at her over one shoulder to hurry it up, and she doesn’t need to say anything because Ashlyn’s heart rate has jumped to that of a hummingbird in a matter of seconds.

All that just from proximity. It’s amazing she’s still alive.

three.

It’s team dinner and there’s really nothing to add except that Ali’s hand has disappeared back under the table and this time she’s foregone the politeness of resting her grip on the curve of her thigh, instead she’s got the pads of her fingers all over _that_ seam of her jeans and Ashlyn’s legs are aching from the way they’re pressed together to stop herself from shaking.

She tries to eat but all she can think of is the last time they made lasagna, which ended with Ashlyn bending Ali haphazardly over the kitchen island and finishing her with three fingers in that quick, dirty way that she craves at the most random and inopportune times.

(they burnt the bread but honestly neither of them cared)

Now Ashlyn is clenching her fists and she’s not breathing and she’s wondering if they should eat lasagna for dinner more often.

four.

She should wait, because they have a movie night that isn’t quite mandatory but definitely isn’t optional in thirty minutes and that’s not really the right amount of time for all of this, both too much and too little. But Ashlyn is past the point of being choosy, and honestly she just needs contact, needs a release, needs something besides what they’ve been doing so far today.

Her opportunity comes fleetingly and she seizes it, walking into the elevator on the heels of Kling and Ali, who are talking animatedly about something involving defensive strategy. This doesn’t keep Ali from leaning back to wink at Ashlyn, which is about all she can handle for the next 24-hour period.

“Kling, out.” There’s a brief moment when Kling is standing wide eyed, her hands held up and splayed out in an almost-cliche image of confusion, but the drawling “What?” dies on her lips when she sees the way Ashlyn is looking at Ali. She gets out of the damn elevator.

Purely out of respect to her friend, Ashlyn waits until the doors have closed all the way before she pushes Ali up against the wall. 

In their early days of dating, Ashlyn had always been gentle, her hands soft and her grip delicate, because Ali felt like a breath of fresh air and she wanted to hold her in the same lovely way that Ali held her heart. Then she had her first experience of Ali pinning her to a bed, learned that her diction slipped to a decidedly filthy level the second her clothes came off, realized that the woman was pure muscle and pure aggression and pure want. And that changed things.

The truth was that Ashlyn had never been quite capable of handling Ali. At least when it came to this. Because Ali was sweet and her smile was wide and contagious and her laugh made a whole room shake and she was pure and she was the simple, uncomplicated conglomeration of everything good that Ashlyn had ever seen in this world. Ashlyn understood this about Ali, fell in love with this, with who she was and how she lived and interacted with the world around her.

Then she fell into bed with the girl the first time and her whole world was changed, perhaps wasn’t flipped upside down but was solidly tossed onto its side and kicked around a bit. She’s been playing catch-up ever since.

Today is yet another day when she’s running behind, so she does her best to even the score, pressed them to the wall and not wasting time getting her leg between Ali’s thighs and getting her mouth on her throat and holding her arms to the wall with fingers curling into her biceps.

The elevator ride lasts 22 seconds, which Ashlyn counts out as Ali’s pulse quickens under her tongue, and then they’re breaking apart and the walk back to her bedroom is deliciously short. In the seconds between the door opening and the door closing, she makes a split second decision — rush into this or drag it out?

She goes with option two. She pins Ali down and doesn’t let her come up for air, keeps her in this perfect in between of kissing hard and keeping clothes on, creating enough friction without ever really giving up any ground. It’s minutes before she dips her hands under that flimsy little t-shirt to run her fingernails across the smooth edges of Ali’s ribcage, and even longer until she takes the shirt off, and at this point Ali is squirming and cursing and none of it is particularly quiet or subtle.

Her name is on Ali’s lips but Ashlyn is taking this slow because, if she’s being honest, she’s mostly in this for revenge right now. She has no intention of finishing anything, instead tugging at Ali’s earlobe with her teeth and leaving a mark precisely half an inch below her collarbone before starting her way slowly down her torso. It takes agonizingly long, and Ashlyn knows it, knows it by the way Ali’s hips bucks her hips and winds her hand through her hair and grips down hard on the sheets. 

Ali also tells her, of course, loudly and without mincing words.

“I swear to fucking god, if you don’t hurry it the fuck up—“ Ali’s breath is strangled and Ashlyn rests her chin on the ridge of Ali’s hip.

“Baby, I’m sorry, we’ve got to go to the movie.” Ali is sitting up and there’s so much lust-filled rage in her eyes that Ashlyn has to laugh, even as fingernails dig into her shoulder.

“If you fucking think—“ Ashlyn stands, her face relatively composed besides the slightest hint of a smirk, and she swears she thinks Ali is going to knock her over.

“Have you ever tried to skip Megan Rapinoe Movie Night?” There’s a crinkle to Ali’s nose that suggests that she knows Ashlyn is right, in some sense of the word, but also knows that she’s equally full of shit. Ali rolls her eyes and walks out of the room, still tugging her shirt back on, and Ashlyn’s laugh echoes loudly. Her legs still ache, of course, but at least she knows the feeling is mutual.

five.

They make it through twenty minutes of the movie.

It takes two texts, both of which are long enough to make Ashlyn dig her nails into her palm but succinct enough to make the point blunt and obvious. Two minutes later, she has a phone call to take. Ali doesn’t even make an excuse, just stands and follows, and ten minutes later they’re all tangled up, with Ali back on top and in control.

“Do you think they were sketched out by us leaving?” Ashlyn asks, and she’s answered by a series of kisses from her jaw to her collarbone and a twist of fingers that leave her particularly breathless.

“Who gives a fuck?” Ashlyn gets the point and she shuts up, stays quiet until she can’t stay quiet anymore.

And dear God Ali teases her badly, but she never fails to make up for it, with her mouth and her hands and the way she sighs into the crook of her neck, and mostly in the way she holds on, for minutes and then hours afterwards, her hands returned to their gentleness, her eyes full of warmth, soft whispers of love pouring off her lips as she falls asleep.


	2. Challenge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kelley's never one to back down from a challenge. Neither is Christen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm apparently also only good at writing about sex so here y'all go, I'm not sorry

She figures it all out a week before the end of the season and the end of her time in New Jersey. Which is great, really, because if she had figured it out even a day earlier she might’ve ruined it all.

(in the end, she’s not sure if it’s all ruined after all. or fixed. or something. or anything.)

And Kelley is just so damn open about everything lately. Literally everything — politics, religion, sex. Especially sex. 

“I just think generally you can tell if they’re a good kisser pretty much in the first couple of seconds,” she says, filling a glass of water and lifting it to her lips with a slight smirk. “And then, like, if it’s a negative, you just book it out of there.”

Christen rolls her eyes, leaning a hip against the cabinets. They’re in Kelley’s kitchen, which quite honestly does look like only a slight upgrade from a frat house, and Kelley is rummaging around for something to eat before they go to dinner. Typical.

“I think it’s the part where I book it out of there that’s difficult.” Kelley snorts, her head halfway stuck in the refrigerator as she digs around for another yogurt cup. “You’ve got a girlfriend, you don’t have to worry about this anymore.”

“Not true.” Kelley says it casually, lifting one finger skywards momentarily, not even taking the time to meet Christen’s eyes. Which is good, because just as momentarily Christen is taken aback, her eyes widening and her breath sucking in through her nose.

“Ah.” She shifts her feet. “Why didn’t you tell me? You’re one of my best friends.”

“Because,” Kelley finds the yogurt and now moves on to finding a clean spoon. “I don’t like telling people personal stuff until it’s cleaned up and tidy. Which it is now.”

Christen nods. She’s not sure where to steer this conversation, but she’s suddenly fascinated with Kelley’s experience of kissing women. Or just the idea of Kelley kissing in general. She’s not sure which.

“So have you had to book it out very often?” Kelley turns, her eyebrows arched in some type of mix of surprise and amusement, and Christen realizes that she probably should’ve asked about the ex-girlfriend and the break up, or at least offered her condolences, but she’s honestly not sorry and a little excitable, so she walks to the other side of the counter, closer to Kelley, and just waits.

“Not terribly often.” There’s a smirk painting every inch of Kelley’s mouth and Christen wants to kiss it off of her and god _damn_ it where did that thought come from? “Especially not lately.”

“What about the girls you’re kissing?” The smirk wavers for the tiniest millisecond. “Do they ever have to suddenly vanish?”

“Oh believe me, that’s never an issue.” Kelley’s voice is low and she’s coughing out that dumb, cocky little half-laugh, as if that’s not even a question that she should bother to respond to.

“Really?” She doesn’t doubt it, but Christen isn’t one to let Kelley get away with any type of narcissism, even if it’s well-deserved and well-earned and honestly quite obvious. She cocks her head to one side, running her tongue over her teeth, and even Kelley can tell that there’s something dangerous hidden under that one-word question.

“I mean, you can find out yourself."

It’s a half second of indecision before Christen makes her move. And yeah, she doesn’t make the best move for their friendship or for their team or for whatever ounce of professionalism she’s been trying to retain in the last two minutes. But she makes the only move that she can think of when an attractive woman is leaning against her kitchen counter and challenging her to kiss her.

She fucking does it.

And of course Kelley kisses back, mostly out of pride because she’s damned if she’s going to let Christen prove her _wrong,_ but then she’s kissing her purely to dampen the heat that’s swirling low in her stomach and that, well, that’s new and interesting and a little too exciting to really handle with just one kiss. This isn’t really the type of thing she wants to sort out with words, because that will slow it all down and ruin this rushed, hyperactive energy that’s fueling whatever _this_ is turning into.

So instead she fists both hands in Christen’s sweatshirt and tugs her closer, deepening the kiss and shortening their breaths and letting everything fall together for a cataclysmic second. There’s a second where she thinks Christen might just pull away, might force them to a screeching halt, but that second just blossoms into a moan, low and quiet in the back of her throat, and that’s enough for Kelley to haul her ass into full gear and get the girl off her feet and onto the couch.

As it turns out, Christen is easy, like stupid easy, which is something she wasn’t aware of herself until Kelley was pushing her hips forward and now she’s practically whimpering, breaking their kiss to toss her head back simply because she can’t stand the level of stimulation at the moment. Of course, that just backfires, because now Kelley can press her mouth to the crook of her neck, and the lack of kissing just gives her more focus to run her hands up her sides and over all the skin of her stomach, her ribs and then—

“Oh.” The gasp is soft, but everything else afterwards is loud, because Kelley’s pushing one hand up under her bra and the other hand is dipping low under her jeans, pausing for a quick flick of fingers that results in the button coming undone and a quick tug that pulls the zipper all the way down.

“Can we just—“ Christen’s hands are tangled up in Kelley’s hair, and the look she levels from her current position of simultaneously hiking up her shirt and pushing down her jeans is entirely indiscernible. “Can we go somewhere else?”

Kelley pauses now, considering this with wide eyes, and it’s actually a good recommendation because her roommates are due home any second and Christen doesn’t need her teammates and soon-to-be opponents to see her with her pants around her ankles and Kelley’s mouth, well, anywhere. She kisses Christen again, hard, which seems to be a “yes” of sorts but takes its meandering time to manifest itself into actual action. Then it’s all too quick and Christen is tripping over herself as Kelley shoves her off the couch and into the hall.

Everything about this feels just like that, as if she’s stumbling backwards, because Kelley is focused with the type of intensity that is impossible for her to control or even anticipate and she’s left doing her best to just _react._ It’s new, because Christen is normally entirely, tacitly in control of these types of situations, but right now she doesn’t mind getting shoved flat on her back. Mostly she doesn’t mind because her jeans are finally around her ankles and Kelley’s mouth is— there.

Her breathing goes back to shuddering gasps and for a brief couple of seconds Press is actually certain that she’s flatlined. Then she sucks in another breath and lets it out with an enunciated “Fuck” which is meant entirely as an expression but which Kelley takes as a prod to move her tongue in the opposite direction, which somehow feels even filthier than the last however-many seconds of fucking have felt.

It’s good, better than good, the type of thing that has Christen’s legs shaking before she’s even remotely close, and she is almost completely at a loss of what to do besides grabbing at Kelley’s hair. She does that, but it backfires again because Kelley is Kelley and trust her to treat this all like any other part of their friendship and find a way to outright torture Christen.

She stops. She just fucking stops, dropping her lips to the inside of Christen’s thigh and pressing kisses to her stomach, and Christen rolls her eyes back, arching up slightly.

“Kell.” She tugs at her hair with one hand. “Can you just—“

“Just what?” Kelley’s voice is muffled because her mouth is busy tracing bare skin, and Christen’s fingers are twitching slightly from the effort of keeping herself level, calm.

“Please.” It must be enough, because Kelley drops her mouth again, and this time she doesn’t move, doesn’t change a thing until Christen arches all the way off the mattress, pinning her thighs down with both hands and letting her ride it out a little roughly.

“So—“ Kelley is sitting up and there’s a shit-eating grin plastered all over her face. “You didn’t leave. Does that answer your question?”

This time, Christen doesn’t hesitate. She kisses the smirk off her face.


	3. Still

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tobin can't sit still.

The first two weeks that they lived together, Christen learned an important truth about Tobin — she never sat still.

Which was strange because Tobin’s personality exuded the type of quiet that even slowed Christen’s pace, forcing her to breathe and to relax and to trust. But while Tobin’s voice remains level and her mind remains calm, her body is in constant, almost unconscious motion, as if she stops moving she’ll have too few distractions to keep from speeding everything up again. She’s kept the apartment bare, and Christen thought this was for practicality due to the hectic nature of Tobin’s life, but she’s now realized that it’s practical for entirely different reasons.

Tobin wakes up each morning and runs for almost six miles, something she both loves and hates, something she insists on doing alone so that she can take the time to center her mind and reconnect with what’s most important to her. When she comes back, she’s barely tired, just invigorated, refreshed and ready to start the day — and not stop moving — and Christen is barely out of bed yet.

She spends hours watching ESPN and kicking a ball against the wall, juggling it casually, mindlessly weaving back and forth across the bare floor, bare feet tracing out paths to dodge invisible defenders. Christen comes out of the bathroom, toothbrush still in her mouth, to see Tobin flat on her back, a ball between her feet, knocking out crunches in — from what she can tell from the slightly grunted counts Tobin is making — sets of 100. They come home from the grocery store and the midfielder grabs hold of the lip above the door and begins pulling herself up by her finger tips, back rippling in a way that makes Christen swallow and look away because it’s not even noon yet and there’s a carton of ice cream melting in her hands that needs to get put away. Whenever they’re not in the middle of something, it seems that Tobin is finding a way to move, leaning at an angle to press out pushups on the kitchen counter, knocking that little ball around with her feet as they talk about what to do for dinner.

It’s not a fidget, but rather an aimless need for motion, paralleled in the way that she runs her fingers through the base of Christen’s hair when they’re watching a movie, by the way she kisses her throat almost without thought while they’re in bed together, by the way her hands are always seeking skin. It’s not something Christen minds — in fact, it’s something she loves — but it amuses her to no end to watch Tobin wander.

On their third day, after hanging pictures in the bedroom and buying a new comforter and filling the kitchen with an actual set of plates and bowls and silverware, Christen buys a couch, which Tobin eyes reluctantly before grabbing one end and helping to lift it to their third floor apartment. The next day, she comes home with a cheap coffee table from IKEA in her trunk and Tobin puts her foot down.

“No.” 

She’s crossing her arms, standing almost protectively in the middle of their living room, and Christen has to smile because Tobin is trying her best to pull the same face she makes for the national team photo shoots whenever a photographer screams, “Look tough!”

“Why not?” Christen’s smile grows a little when Tobin raises her eyebrows, as if shocked at any type of argumentative response. “Tobin, it doesn’t look like anyone lives here. Are you even sure you live here?"

“There won’t be room.” Tobin’s voice canters slightly upwards as she gestures at the floor around them. Christen casts her eyes around — the apartment is surprisingly spacious for the city, especially this room, and with the coffee table assembled there would be over a foot of space on either side, plenty to walk through. But she knows what Tobin means. She puts up a half-hearted fight, and the next day she returns to IKEA with her receipt in hand. She buys a few throw pillows to make herself feel better, something Tobin doesn’t mention and most likely doesn’t notice.

On the fifth day, she walks in from a workout and Tobin — who already ran in the morning and has another workout this evening — is on her back again, this time lifting 30 pound weights in some type of informal chest press as she watches a soccer game. And it’s not that she minds, she still doesn’t mind, but she just wants Tobin to slow down for a moment, which is why she drops her bags at the door and doesn’t even pause before dropping to the ground next to Tobin.

“Hey,” Tobin says, a smile flitting across her face. She’s only pressing 60 pounds, which Christen knows is beyond light for both of them and therefore not a reason to be concerned about her dropping anything. So she doesn’t pause, again, before swinging one leg over Tobin’s hips and straddling her, both hands resting on either side of Tobin’s waist.

“Hey.” She’s smirking, not even trying to keep her body weight off of the woman beneath her, letting her hips press down into Tobin. She grins even wider when Tobin lets out a slightly hitched breath, resting the weights close to her torso.

“Can I help you?” Christen just leans closer, a smile filling her face. 

“Can you just— just stop for a minute.” She’s surprised at how confident her voice sounds, almost brassy, because even now the way that Tobin looks at her, half wonder and half awe with just a touch of amusement, is enough to make her breathing unsteady. Instead, she drops her lips to Tobin’s neck, pressing her mouth openly, almost sloppily against Tobin’s skin as she trails up towards her earlobe. “Put the weights down.”

Tobin complies and then there are hands up her shirt, hands in her hair, and Christen is still drenched and probably smells a bit gross from her lifting session but she doesn’t care, pressing down into the body beneath her. 

It’s all rough at the edges, Christen a little desperate because this has been her first chance to start anything in over a day and Tobin a little pushy because she is never eager to stay underneath Christen for too long. And the whole thing is rushed, Christen slipping her hand under Tobin’s waistband after only a few minutes of kissing, her smile loud as she feels the body under her arch up completely, their hips flush against each other, and it doesn’t take long because it’s all so unexpected. They’re both loud and a little messy and a little crooked, and Tobin is forgetful and leaves bruises along her shoulder, and the floor honestly isn’t that comfortable but God it feels good to not care, to just go with it, to fuck on the living room floor like it means nothing because they have all the time in the world, they have the time to go slow or fast, they don’t have to wait or hide or dodge into hotel rooms and empty locker rooms to steal this away.

Tobin arches even more when Christen pulls her shorts down, pushing her shirt up a bit only to give herself more access, more skin to kiss, and now she's really rushing things, ignoring any sense of prelude and skipping straight to the surefire solutions. Tobin comes undone under her, body shuddering and nails scraping at Christen’s shoulder, her voice unsteady and full of breath.

“Fuck, Chris.” Christen's lips are still wet as she trails her tongue back up Tobin’s stomach, pulling herself back into the position she started in, trapping her waist between her knees. “What got into you?”

Christen shrugs, and Tobin laughs, and as she leans down to muffle the noise with another kiss she can't help but feel grateful for this start, however haphazard, to the rest of their lives together.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ali has no patience and Ashlyn makes a new rule about house guests.

“Can you not?”

Ali leaned against the counter, raising one eyebrow and leveling a glare at Kelley, who had stuck two fingers into a bowl of cookie dough. Their eyes met and Kelley smiled sweetly.

“Taste testing?” Her voice was hopeful, and Ali rolled her eyes.

“Fine.” She turned around, picking up a knife and returning to chopping up lettuce for a salad. “But for God’s sake, don’t take more than that.”

Ashlyn strolled into the room, phone in hand and lips pursed as she reads something on the screen. She dipped a finger into the cookie dough, shooting a conspiratorial wink in Kelley’s direction before sauntering over to stand next to Ali.

“Whatcha cooking, Krieger?” Ashlyn wrapped an arm around Ali’s waist, and for a second she paused her hands, leaning her head back against her fiancee’s shoulder.

“Nothing if you don’t help, ma’am.” Ali tipped her chin back a little further, a smile dancing across her lips. “There’s chicken to chop, sauce to mix, I think those cookies need to get in the oven—“

Her words caught in her throat as Ashlyn’s hands dropped a little lower on her stomach, her mouth dropping to press lazily against her throat.

“Maybe I could help you with something else?” Her voice was thick with teasing, and Ali laughed lightly. She was about to respond when she heard a small rustle from across the kitchen.

“Guys.” Kelley had planted both hands on her hips. “I’m still right here.”

Ashlyn groaned, dropping a single kiss on Ali’s shoulder before crossing the kitchen to start on the kitchen. Ali picked the knife back up, rolling her eyes and rolling out her shoulders at the same time.

“Please cut it into small chunks, Ash.” She didn't even need to turn around before she spoke again. “And both of you leave the cookie dough the hell alone.”

The team had been at their house for a day. Already, it was taking its toll — on Ali especially. Ashlyn didn’t seem to mind having people crowding the kitchen, sprawled on the sofa, filling up the back porch with beers in their hands and a rowdy chorus of laughter only a heartbeat away.

But Ali liked her quiet. She liked her peace, her little moments free of noise, soft seconds with Ashlyn when their hands wandered lazily and she didn’t feel the need to glance at the clock. Her life was spent too focused on timing, on passion, on intensity. She cherished the moments in between.

Having the team there changed that. There was still training, long runs in the morning, weight sessions in the early afternoons. But their free time was spent cooking, exploring, attempting to get all of the group drunk and then attempting to keep all of them reasonably tame in their drunkenness. It was fun, and Ali loved her team. But after one day, she was wishing that she wasn’t the one hosting anymore. 

She was washing a basket full of towels on that second morning when Ashlyn walked in. She was freshly showered, and she brought with her the smell of shower, shampoo and lotion mingling together as she leaned against the doorjamb.

"You good?" Ali nodded, flashing a small smile as she tossed the towels into the washing machine.

"Couldn't be better." She paused to rub at her shoulder for a moment, pressing her fingers into a knot that felt just slightly outside of her grasp. Ashlyn saw it immediately and stepped forward, pushing Ali's hands out of the way and pressing her fingers into the warm skin. "How about you?"

"I'm okay." Ashlyn leaned forward slightly, pressing her front into Ali's back, her lips close to Ali's hair. "Wish we had a little more privacy."

Ashlyn's fingers were a little more persistent now. They dropped to her lower back, rubbing the same circles into her muscles, loosening tension that she hadn't even realized was there. Without even realizing what was happening, Ali let out a slight moan.

"Yeah." Her voice was breathy as she turned around, looping her arms around Ashlyn's neck. "We could get so much done."

With a single step forward, Ashlyn had pressed her hips into Ali, gaining another soft moan as she pressed her lips lightly into her collarbone. Her hands drifted lower, palms pressing against her waist. They kissed and Ali melted slightly into Ashlyn's grip, arching her back in a desperate attempt to gain more friction.

"Believe me, I won't take much," she muttered, grabbing at Ashlyn's wrist and sliding her hand downwards, ignoring the smirk on her lips as her fingers brushed right where—

"Yo, can we put this in there too?" The door swung open and Ashlyn stepped back, muttering a quiet curse as she spun to face Morgan, who was walking in with three T-shirts in her arms. The younger girl stopped short, her eyes flicking nervously between Ashlyn and Ali where she sat on the washing machine, face flushed and pants halfway unbuttoned. "Oh god, I'm sorry, it's always me—"

"You're good." Ashlyn took the shirts from her hands, the smirk returning to her mouth. "Not a worry, we'll get this washed."

"Right. Laundry." Morgan's eyes continued to flash about the room, refusing to stay in one spot. "Okay. Good. See you. Later, right? Later. Bye."

Ashlyn began to laugh the second the door closed, the sound low and rumbly in her throat. She walked back to Ali, her mouth pressing against her cheek briefly.

"To be continued," she murmured, and Ali let out a breath, smiling.

And it wasn't a disappointment, because they had lunch at a local pub and cooked burgers for dinner in the backyard, and the group simmered gently in the summer heat with beers in hand, Kelley literally turning cartwheels to entertain them with Becky shouting encouragement from her spot next to Carli. It was warm with comfort, and Ali and Ashlyn let their hands brush as they sat side by side.

But it happened again that night. This time it was normal, the two of them tangled up in bed, sneaking kisses as they whispered about the day. And Ashlyn's hands were wandering, and Ali's mouth was growing increasingly dirtier, muttering suggestions of where exactly she wanted those hands to wander. And they were just beginning to get caught up in each other when there was a knock on the door.

"Are you kidding me?" Ali growled, throwing her feet over the side of the bed and stalking across the room. She flung the door open to see Kelley, in full Under Armour gear, a hopeful smile coloring her face.

"I'm sorry, I know it's late but—" She glanced over her shoulder, where Emily and Mallory stood and even— God, Ali thought to herself, even Becky was in on this. "Can we go look at the stars? There's a meteor shower tonight."

"I—" Ali looked back, but Ashlyn was already on her feet. grinning and throwing on a sweatshirt.

"I'll get my keys," Ashlyn said cheerfully, kissing Ali on the forehead as she brushed by, and Ali left her curses to herself.

It happened again. In the early morning, when they were fixing breakfast. As they lingered in the booth at a bar. At night, when they tried to catch a silent moment alone in the back of the house, fingers curling into each other's shirts and mouths catching each other's skin. There was no privacy, not with the team in their home, and by the fourth day — the last day — even Ashlyn was getting visibly jittery.

The team took their time to leave. First it was Becky, who seemed to see that the girls had at least slightly over stayed their welcome in some way or another. Then it was Kelley and Emily, who seemed to travel together even more than normal now, and then Hope and Carli, and then Mallory, and then slowly the whole of the team was gone. Morgan, of all people, had the last flight out, and she spent most of their afternoon together apologetically glancing between the couple.

"I'm gonna get an Uber," she finally murmured, grabbing her Adidas bag and moving towards the door. She threw an arm around Ali and then around Ashlyn, saying something quickly about seeing them at the next camp and tossing a quick "Love you both" over a shoulder.

The door fell shut behind her with a clang. Ashlyn smirked slightly, laughing, and she turned, a quip ready and available — except that Ali was already sidling up to her, both hands sliding across her ribcage. 

"Don't say anything stupid." She kissed Ashlyn on the mouth, then on the throat, her fingers moving quickly to the buttons on Ashlyn's shirt. "I just want to fuck you and do it fast and I need you to not fuck that up right now."

"Got it." She groaned slightly as Ali's hands finished with the buttons and scraped against bare skin. "I'll just stay dead silent—"

"Shut. Up." Ali's hands were assertive, and she didn't hesitate to push Ashlyn back into the wall, or to unbutton her pants just as quickly, or to slide her hand to the place that made Ashlyn forget how to speak, how to even make her typical little jokes. It was only minutes and Ashlyn was arching back against the wall, cursing as Ali bit lightly at her jaw and moved her wrist in tight rotations.

"Ali I—" She grabbed at her shoulder, gasping, and her head fell forward and in moments Ali was holding up the whole of her weight, not caring how sloppy or rushed all of this was. Ashlyn let out a choked sob, her fingers curling into Ali's biceps. She grinned in response, not letting her pace slow until Ashlyn's legs trembled slightly under her own weight.

For a moment, they stood like that, Ashlyn with her shirt half-off and her jeans pushed down around her hips and sweat clinging to her forehead as she sucked in air in gasps. And then she was pushing Ali the other way, over the back on the couch and onto her back, her knee between her thighs and her mouth against her throat.

"Ali?" A response came in the source of a moan, the end of the breath upturned as if she was asking a question. "We are never having all of them over again."

Ali just laughed, and Ashlyn kissed her breath way.


End file.
